


TV Adaptation And Us

by softwinds



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Capital F Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Meta (in a way), Post-Canon, Writer knows very little about how period drama works, i suppose (this is so hard to tag ahh), or anything really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27984273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softwinds/pseuds/softwinds
Summary: Troy thumps his bag on the counter, almost slipping on a pool of spilled booze. The tavern keeper nods her chin at him, polishing a pewter mug with both hands, blond hair loosely curled and smells of a pungent foreign herb. Fisherman Leonard said she was a witch, a callow palm reader, and that her meat pies tasted like burnt mushrooms.“Men fear for witches because they have bonding issues with their moms,” she snorts. “I have a theory on breastfeeding. Either they suckled from the bosom of life for too long as children, or not enough. I haven’t decided yet.”-Pitch meeting for a TV series, snippets, and its writer.
Relationships: Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	TV Adaptation And Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cloudsweater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudsweater/gifts).



> Hi all! Me again :D Back from a small hiatus. I really enjoyed writing this, although I've noticed some style changes throughout the story (pls forgive me... unbeta'ed so pls forgive the grammar mistakes too)
> 
> written for [Abby](https://trobeddie.tumblr.com) on tumblr. This is not ~exactly~ (well pretty far from) what you wanted, but i was having major writer's block for the OG prompt and somehow this fic came out of it. I hope you like this, and I swear I'll finish the other story one day!
> 
> tw: mentions of drinking, brief mentions of Pierce Hawthorne

“Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee with milk, thanks.”

“Good choice. Steph makes the best French press in this building: It’s a mug full of sunshine. It’s like liquid crack. You know what the secret is? This might sound weird, but she grinds it from beans—”

“— She grinds it from beans, not crap. _Scrubs s_ eason one episode 20.”

“Ah, great catch! You’re a big _Scrubs_ head?”

“I’m a fan of Bill Lawrence and some of his later works.”

“Of course, he did some good shows... Oh, your coffee’s coming. Smells good, Steph, fantastic job as ever! So, let’s do this. I’ve got a copy of your script right here: episode one, _Pilot_ , _the story follows young handyman Troy Garners_ —Troy, I like that. That’s a strong name.”

“It is.”

“Why Garners? Like a granary?”

“Yes. A granary or a barn.”

“Got you. I apologize; I get sidetracked very easily. Let’s just hear the pitch— you can start whenever you want. Mind if I record us?”

“No, not at all. Opening scene, Troy _T-Bone_ Garners walks into a tavern, hoping that this time the nickname can stick...”

***

Troy thumps his bag on the counter, almost slipping on a pool of spilled booze. The tavern keeper nods her chin at him, polishing a pewter mug with both hands, blond hair loosely curled and smells of a pungent foreign herb. Fisherman Leonard said she was a witch, a callow palm reader, and that her meat pies tasted like burnt mushrooms.

“Men fear for witches because they have bonding issues with their moms,” she snorts. “I have a theory on breastfeeding. Either they suckled from the bosom of life for too long as children, or not enough. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Britta.”

“Troy.”

“Can you call me T-bone?”

“No.” Britta rolls her eyes and drops her elbows on the countertop. “Duh-doy. Coward much? Running from your past much? You’re the sole heir of Sir Pierce Hawthorn’s Terrycloth empire, _kidnapped_ by some pirate king. I can’t walk ten yards without seeing your face on a poster.”

“You don’t have to recite my backstory every time I try to reinvent myself like I’m the protagonist of a cautionary tale.” Troy mumbles. “I don’t want to be a _Terrycloth tycoon_! I know nothing about it. I thought Terrycloth was Pierce’s nickname for his underwear.”

Britta shrugs. Troy proceeds to fill his belly with meads and pies (which he now sure are actually made of mushrooms), until the table starts spinning and stands still once more. He sees a man scaling him with shifty eyes, so he knows that finally— inevitably, he’ll have to leave again and move on, playing hide-and-seek with fate like a hare under the cruel watch of barn owls. Sir Hawthorn’s fourteen land deeds push him away from an ordinary life, and Troy’s afraid that he’ll hop around the world a stranded man, without ever again attaining a single thing.

“I’ll go with you,” Britta pours the last drops of booze from her keg. 

“You will?”

“I want to be more than a tapster! Business is shit anyway. Most people only hang around for Tummy Tuesdays, and Tummy Tuesdays— Don’t even ask me what that is.” She replies. “Let’s go topple some oppressive patriarchal regime.”

“I don’t think the captain wants to—”

“Let’s go topple some oppressive patriarchal regime,” Britta takes in a deep breath. “Slowly. One day at a time.”

-

Life on the sea is blue. 

Sapphire blue, for the most part, steel blue if you climb on the deck at a sleepless 3 am, strewn with beau blue on sea birds’ wings, glistening, dancing folios with minds of their own and bad table manners. 

Troy travels with the pirates. He’s known Captain Burton since he was a kid, when the man wasn’t yet known as Metal-Eyed Levardis. He had a bookshop back then; embarking was his choice, for some reason, when his eyesight started to go, and the move was later proven correct when he acquired a pair of correction goggles from some star-crossed merchants. Captain Burton says they come from the sky.

Troy doesn’t ask him about the destination. He never did, and he never really cared. It’s not something he can decide anyway. Technically, he’s the new boatswain; he fixes things. Troy wrenched and hammered in Hawthorne Manor for years, where Pierce spent his last moments insisting that he treated Troy just like a son, and that he had sex with _the_ femme fatale Elbertha Kitt on a hot air balloon. 

But maybe, just maybe, life can be more than just fixing things— that he can think, and learn about highly impractical facts, and grind his own coffee, and understand those scrolls made by monks.

“Troy, I am telling you, man, this salmon is really good.” Captain Burton sits down besides Troy on the deck, legs crossed. “Still pondering life?”

“Yeah. No. Maybe?” He looks at the horizon. “Does it get better? You know, somewhere out there— I feel like I should be grateful because my life is already exciting, but I can't decide if this is the life I want. I hold the wheel in my hands but the only way to break free seems too dicey even in my own mind. Is that normal?”

“Sure.” Captain Burton sighs. “Come back to the kitchen when you’ve done considering. Have some grilled asparagus. Your friend Britta’s trying to make us quit meat.”

***

“— Sorry, quick pause. The name of your pirate king. Captain Burton. His name is Metal-eyed Levardis.”

“Yes.”

“So the full name will be Levardis Burton.”

“Yes.”

“Like… LeVar Burton. From Star Trek.”

“Also from the 1976 children’s educational series _Rebop_. And he’ll be played by LeVar. I talked to him already. He already agreed.”

“You know LeVar Burton, like, personally?”

“We have some history— He’s a family friend. We do barbecue together every summer. Shall I continue the pitch?”

“Yeah— yeah. Wow. Uh. Please continue.”

***

“Did you just say Mrs. Winger? It hasn’t been Mrs. Winger since last March.” Annie towels the water out of her now-shortened hair. “It was a mutual agreement.”

“A mutual agreement that we both preferred boobs and billiards.” Jeffrey examines his attires by the surface of a compass. “Goddammit. I’m completely soaked. Is there _any_ chance there’s a screw press on board? Or a mangle board. A large beach stone. Anything— does anyone have very smooth heels?”

Troy wants to remind them that they are, in fact, technically captives, but he doubts that they’d care. Detective Annie comes bravely to Troy’s rescue though he doesn’t actually need any— the childhood playmate he faintly remembers now has the brightest eyes. Jeffrey the lawman, artful with a sly smile, willingly dives into yet another misadventure although he claims it to be fallacious.

“I was supposed to find you and save you,” Annie tells him, shoulder raised and palms out. “I was supposed to, you know, stay on top of things. I was supposed to make sure _you_ stay on top of things.”

“I'm pretty on top.”

“Troy! You’re basically a sea drifter. This is one step away from living in a barrel that’s floating away from its garbage pile.” She reasons. “I thought you were supposed to start a new life, not... fixing up an old pirate ship.”

“But this is what I get— traveling across the lonely sea with a team of misfits. If they need me to do some odd jobs sometimes, I’ll do it. It’s alright. Wait. That sounded like a metaphor. Was I accidentally making metaphors again?” Troy pauses. “I uh. I should go talk to Britta.”

“The hot girl from the cooper’s quarter? Do you know what her deal is,” Jeffrey taps on Troy’s shoulder. “I may need some help. I can't find a road in there.”

-

They stumble into the Natal Slice Rustler during the next shore leave (Annie calls it her major scoop, although Troy isn’t sure that’s a detective term), bust an underground alchemy lab and meet the inventor of cat-powered carriages. 

_This is uncommon._ Troy thinks to himself. _But at the same time, awesome?_

They find and destroy an evil trampoline before listening to their first winger speech. They get trapped in an experimental blimp and experience the suffocating effects of tension-fueled constant bickering. 

“You people are weird around here,” Says the town’s sheriff. “This is weird.”

They help a man combine lutes with pipe organs. They debate the attractiveness of some professional cowboy named the Black Rider. And at some point, they whiteness an almost-achieved kiss. 

“If I ever, like, woke up as an oliebol.” Troy declares, over another departure dinner.

“And what?” Captain Burton finishes peeling his banana. Troy wants to answer, but the gang already turned their attention to some special drink-added eggnogs. Troy wonders if other people think about this kind of stuff too.

Probably not.

-

Shirley Bennett, the preacher, makes the best buns Troy’s ever tasted. In fact, she—

***

“— Wait. Sorry. Just, the mind picture you were painting there was exquisite. The town’s foreign doctor, what was his name? The prime suspect?”

“Ian Duncan.”

“Yes. Yes, love the accent you used. Reminds me of a young John Oliver. However, before you go on— I noticed one thing.”

“What was that?”

“There’s no love interest.”

“Jeffrey is interested in Britta. Annie once had interests in Jeff. You also get Annie’s side plot where she further explores her identity and sexuality with an all-female Ringen team.”

“But what about Troy? He isn’t with Britta. He isn’t with Annie. He isn’t with Jeff—”

“It’s coming up.”

“It’s not… it’s not LeVar, right?”

“Don’t worry. It’s coming up.”

***

Shirley Bennett, the Reverend, makes the best buns Troy’s ever tasted. In fact, she’s so good at baking that she’s seriously considering a career transition.

“I’ll quit after I get to that theater boy down the street,” She purses her lips. “Nice little playwright. He’s not a lost cause yet— unlike some of you over here.”

“What? Don’t look at me,” Britta protests. “Secular paganism can be very empowering like any other religion.”

“And being agnostic is still a valid—” A parishioner picks up his head to boo at Jeff. “Okay, fine. I didn’t have a very spiritual upbringing, alright?”

“ _Okay_.” Shirley gives him a clearly forced smile that shows no sign of actually trying. “Like I said, that boy has goodness in his heart. Although his choices of storylines can be… questionable.”

“I like stories! And I have questions,” Troy decides. “Have you guys read the new _Bat Monsieur_ graphic scroll? — why did I even ask,” adults are disappointing. So very disappointing. “We should go talk to him at least.”

“Yes!” Annie beams. “For the buns!”

-

It’s hardly love at the first sight, unless, of course, a person’s love language can be an extremely detailed explanatory burst about his ethnicity, family tree, his father’s emotional issues and misrepresented threat towards national safety, a traumatic feedback loop exhibiting how geopolitics can influence interpersonal relationships— which also happens to be the cause of aforementioned emotional issues. 

Yet, the question inducing the string of information remains unanswered.

“My name’s writer A, by the way.” He says, holding out his hand.

“Like Madame X? That’s so cool.” Troy exclaims. “I didn’t know you can use only one letter. Why didn’t _my_ parents do that?”

“It’s a code name, Troy. It’s made up.” Jeff flattens his mouth. “Why not tell us the real thing, _writer A_ , since we already learned so much about your parental history that we can practically give you moral therapy. Got something to hide?”

“Not really.” The playwright pulls up a tiny smile. “I can’t tell you my name. Maybe it’s my habit. Maybe I’m just in the mood of mystery. Maybe I have trust issues— or maybe not. Maybe it’s all for the story: the atmosphere, a big reveal in the future, a character with veils and masks awaiting the worthy one to strip them off; maybe, if I tell you my name at this moment, my intention would seem too crude and obvious that the story won’t even have a chance to be properly told.” He pauses. “Maybe it doesn’t matter at all; maybe, across universes and timelines, my name varies: Abdul, Amare, Adil, Asim, maybe it doesn’t even start with the letter A. I’m still me, and for now, you’re still seeing me as a socially dysfunctional media addict.”

“What... What are you looking at?” Annie frowns, following A’s gaze. “Who are you talking to?”

Writer A hums. Troy isn’t sure he followed the monologue entirely, but he actually tried.

“Wait a second.” He gasps. “There is more than one timeline?” 

-

In the beginning Troy’s just eager to talk about _Bat Monsieur_ , as well as _The Valorous Tales of Victoriana Jones And The Thieves Who’re Looking for Boats_ . But They hang out. They hang out more than Troy has expected. Way more than that, in fact; all of a sudden they’re together almost every day. It’s strange, since the image of a laborer is nothing like that of a penman. But Troy soon finds out that the wordsmith can work his biceps no worse than him, and that there’s no shame in seeking joy from scribbles and jokes— though others might be mildly annoyed by it, but hey, who cares, _awesome conveyor platform_ is still funny.

Then comes the mock play, the pretend morning theater of Troy-and-A. The playwright is composing a farce (which is a funny word), about a trooper powered by steam (which is brilliant). A theater company is gathered, and the lead actor, who’s taken particular interest in Jeff, always visits in knee length sheath dresses covered in Dalmatian prints.

“That’s not for the play.” Writer A admits. “Craig says it’s an avant-garde attempt at expressing the beauty of human form.”

“Hmm,” Troy nods. “Dalmatians. They’re awesome. I want to know if those dots are born that way, or if they start off tiny then grow into big size.”

“Let’s go find a Dalmatian puppy.” The playwright considers.

“We should do that.” Troy replies. “We can go meet their family! We can become puppy godfathers— we can watch them grow up and cry-dance at their wedding— Can I move in with you?”

Writer A turns his gaze at him. There’s a searching look in his eyes, Troy can tell, although he’s unsure about their objectives. The playwright’s face is soft and unreadable, and Troy’s heart pounds in his chest like drum beats. His hope is fervid, and the fact that he’s a wandering man now seems unimportant. He thinks it will hurt if the answer is no, but again, he’ll always trust the playwright's reasoning— 

The answer is yes. 

“There were two controlling factors.”

“There were?”

“The first was that I like being with you and I like to be with you twenty-four seven.”

“Me too.”

“The second is that I’m scared. I’m scared of messing it up, that my feelings will be abraded by the triviality of everyday life and the conflicts it brings. I’ve never experienced what I have with you and I don’t want it to die. At another time, another day, I might succumb to what the latter propounds. I’ll try to justify it. I’ll be successful at first,” the playwright says, fast yet cautiously.

Troy studies A’s face. He’s momentarily entranced— compelled to lean in closer. But he catches himself. He clears his throat.

“Wanna make a paperboard torpedo boat together?”

“You bet. Wanna sail it to Jeff’s lodging room after we finish?”

“Yes!” Troy beams. “Obviously. I thought you’d never ask.”

-

The look on Reverend Shirley’s face often screams _I love you both so I’m glad you’re happy but oh god what have I done._

Britta, covering Troy’s hands in hers, offering him complete and total support. Troy isn’t sure what it’s for, but sure, he’ll take it.

Annie smiles and waves at them, a little jumpy. Jeff winces, sticking out the tip of his tongue, telling them to _keep all that cutesy stuff inside their own room_. Troy also spots him signing, seemingly amused, shaking his head furtively after they shrug the comment off and turn to head back home.

“You can know my name.” Writer A lays on the floor, soothing down the billows of his chest after an afternoon of _Diminish Difficulty_ induced debate. “It will be safe with you. Lend me your ear...”

***

“... You just mumbled.”

“What?”

“You said, _lend me your ear_ , and then you just mumbled. Instead of, you know, saying the name.”

“Oh. My bad. You’re not supposed to have that information— It’s supposed to cut away. Fades into music like what they do in Inspector Spacetime, because that name is only reserved for the Constable.”

“A conversation not even the audience can partake.”

“Exactly.”

***

Troy’s not sure he’s going to survive. He calls out for Abed. Fortunately, he answers, his voice labored but alert, traveling through the moanings of the living dead and leading them to each other. They manage to climb up a storage shelf, and the blank-faced hunters stare up at them, eyes void of emotions.

“It was Craig’s stewed steak.” Abed sharply exhales. “You should go.”

“I’m not going anywhere!”

“You can come back and save me. You can save everyone.” Abed manages, stabbing down with a broom to keep the hungered crowd at bay. His brows are twisted. His shoulders are strained.

“Abed…”

“Make me proud, Troy. Make it to the end no matter what.”

There’s a sharp burn on the bridge of Troy's nose. “I love you.”

Abed cants up the corners of his mouth and nods. “I know.” He says, before he’s dragged down and swallowed in a whirlpool of reaching limbs. They don’t remember it in the morning. Everything is just fine in the morning and the night before seems so distant and hazy, but Troy feels a compulsion vibrating from his fingertips up to his crown that he _has_ to repeat those words in his dream. 

Abed looks straight at him, and for a moment Troy’s sure that he’s zoning away. He smiles. 

“Me too.” 

-

Troy’s glad that Abed’s here, breathing, so he holds close the pair of slender shoulders. He’s still in that stupid bard costume, but he’s ready to break out a chase.

“What have they done to you?” He hisses. “Tell me who they look like!”

There’s a jingling behind him. A man heedfully slides towards the door, the tips of his jester hat taping against his old-timey physician clothes.

“What are… what are you doing?” Troy loosens his arms, trying to sound calmer than he is. “So we just spent our whole night paying off your debt, and you're blowing money on a _Bandage Adamson_?”

“It’s two for one—”

“Abed! You don't like people who tell you what to do, and I don't want to be one of those people.” Troy takes a deep breath. “But this has got to stop. Sometimes— you just have to trust that I know better about stuff.” He gulps. “You're gonna have to trust that you're gonna have to trust me.”

Abed corks his head. He’s hesitating, and Troy’s ready to compromise.

“Okay, Abed, in the end I still want to be your—”

“I can do that.” Abed pulls back a little, voice clipped.

“Oh,” the speech Troy just composed is no longer useful. “You… you can?”

“Yeah.” He replies. “I can this time.”

“This time?”

“Don't mind it,” and Troy wouldn’t anyway, because the warmth of Abed’s skin quietly settles on his waist. “I love you.”

So he smiles. “Me too.”

***

“Will there be sex scenes?”

“...Pardon?”

“I feel like we’re heading toward— you know. And, I apologize— the board _does_ want this thing PG-13.”

“Of course. I understand. There won’t be explicit content.”

“Nothing on screen?”

“Nothing on screen.”

***

The first time, it’s fast and overwhelming. Abed is editing his second act, and Troy’s chin is on his shoulder because the sky is dusking and he wants to know the fate of Continent Kayaclasch. He pecks on Abed’s cheek, his nose bridge, before his mouth burns on another set of lips with the turning of Abed’s head. 

Troy sees the stars. Each and every one of them, far and close across the ecliptic.

They kiss, back against the desk, against the wall and sash windows, they fumble with buttons and cufflinks until there is none left. Abed’s palms are honest and his tongue wicked; Troy remembers gasping for air, with fingers twirled through his hair, yanking him back to the rhythm of their waists. He doesn’t last long. His ears are ringing when Abed pulls away. Through off-focused vision, the playwright’s face is flushed like the flickerings from his lantern. 

The second time, there’s more planning involved. Troy brings wine because apparently romance is concealed in crushed grapes, and Abed brings a promise that he knows where they can hug a small monkey— because just the thought of their fluffy little hands makes Troy do the _aww_ face. Their limbs tangle before the dinner is touched, and Abed is suddenly between his thighs, straddled and buried in kisses, cock pushed against Troy’s buttcheek, careful with every little noise escaping from his mouth until he’s no longer in control. Troy spills across his own stomach and collapses against Abed’s chest, boneless as if he’s floating in a sea of fresh cotton. The bottle of wine must’ve rolled away somewhere, never again found; Troy wonders if that night is what it’s supposed to taste like.

They almost get caught the third time, when Annie is sleeping over and Abed cuddles up with Troy in a blanket fort, his breaths wander across Troy’s jawbone. His nightshirt is soft, his collar unbuttoned, and Troy cannot resist.

The fourth and fifth time, they try to wash each other’s hair and end up in the same bath.

The sixth time happens right after a masquerade— they’re both suited nicely, face painted, prancing until the sun threatens to break out the mist. Abed holds him still in a vacuous alley; they tremble by the heat of fingers and lips, and neither bothers even trying to undress. Seventh, eighth and ninth come as the beginning of a routine, a fortuitous rhythm they both gladly fall in, something new, exciting and sweet, drops of caramel at the top of a malt cake; their ardency reinvigorates after being taken care of. Troy loses count after that.

-

“I'll do it.” 

“You’ll do what?” Troy picks up his head, confused.

“One day you’ll have to leave, and I’ll accept it.” Abed replies, his eyes casting down. “I’ll accept you not being here. For however long it may be.”

“You think I’ll leave because of Pierce’s will?”

“I think you’ll leave because you’ll want to be your own person.” 

“That’s silly.” Troy frowns. “I’ve been my own person for twenty-three years. I’ve been yours for like, one.” 

“I guess the present always feels longer. After sometime your memory will be filled with _us_ , static and constant. And you’ll start dreaming, that maybe life isn’t supposed to be this way, that a part of it should be preserved for _you_ and _you alone_.”

“And how would you know that again?”

“I just know.”

“Why, are you feeling the same way?”

“We have different internal workings.”

“Listen, if there’s another timeline— some magical universe where letters can be sent and received in seconds, and we can look at each other’s face across skies and oceans, I might be able to handle being away. Even in that timeline, I’ll come back. I promise you. But in this universe we stick together.”

“I’ll leave with you then.” Abed considers. “If you ever leave. I’m glad your boat is large and structurally sturdy, just safe enough for around-the-world traveling.”

“Can you imagine,” Troy agrees. “Doing the same thing on a tiny sailboat, those cute cruises painted in white? That’ll take a miracle.”

“A miracle indeed.”

-

He thumps his bag on the counter, almost slipping on a pool of spilled booze. The tavern keeper nods at him, holding up two mugs of beer. Her hair, brown and shiny like fresh chestnut, perfectly combed, cascading across her chest. The bar is crowded and noisy, in a good way too, and no one’s throwing up yet.

“Farewell party?” She asks. 

“Yeah?” he answers. “Maybe. Not really.”

Britta decides to tag along. She’s starting a social circle for _witches against patriarchy_. Annie is branching her work into pathology; her efforts in sampling and categorization are vigorous and her vision is broad. Shirley will hitch a ride to the next place that needs her love, either in terms of faith or food. Jeff, although he blows it off every time someone asks— they all know he isn’t ready to part ways.

“Ugh. Okay, my fellow lovable misfits,” he declares, leaning back on the fore mast, his hair casual-handsome. “You’re truly on your way to becoming something unstoppable, through countless mistakes and misadventures no less— but hey, somehow it all worked out, it seems like, for one reason or another. Thus, I hereby pronounce you a—”

***

He takes off his shoes and sets his phone on mute. He tries to get changed as quietly as possible, stepping out of his pants and into light-green cotton pajamas. The cat purrs and rubs against his ankle, so he decides to stay and scritch under her chin for a minute before heading to the bedroom. His husband is asleep when he slips into bed. The air around him is warm and their pillows smell like sugared apples (scented candles were on sale at their grocery store and so they made some impulse purchases. He’s not complaining). 

He carefully wraps his arms around his husband’s shoulders, his palms on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeats and the calmness it brings. The shoulder blades twitch against his collarbones. Apparently he isn’t careful enough.

“...Abed?” His husband’s voice is small and sleepy. “Baby?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re home?”

“I’m home.” He whispers, burying his nose in the crook of his husband’s neck. His love hums, sated, and wriggles himself closer so that his sleep-heavy legs can fully fit between the night air-chilled ones.

“How did it go?”

“It went well.” 

“I’m sure they loved it,” his husband murmurs. “You’re the best. Did you tell them about Dalmatians?”

“I did.” 

“Good. Because,” he mouths, and pauses, as if he has adequately expressed an important opinion, although only a few strewed syllables actually sprout out of that speech.

He kisses along his husband’s neck, gentle like winds thumbing across the edge of a leaf.

“Get back to sleep. It’s late.” He pauses a beat, suddenly overcome by a wave of fervency. “Troy?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. I love you so much, baby... Are we still having Thai tomorrow?” 

He tries to answer, but Troy’s already drifting off again. He pecks on his husband’s neck one more time and whispers goodnight. They’re together now. He echoes to himself, in reality and dreams, now and always.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked this :D  
> Kudos and comments are always so appreciated! My tumblr is [softhauntedwinds](https://softhauntedwinds.tumblr.com) and I post my art there :D come say hi!!


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